(She's Not an) Unforgiving Girl
by lordue61116
Summary: Jon Snow and Daenerys Targaryen move north from Dragonstone to prepare for the Great War. Secrets are revealed, relationships tested, family reunited - and the Army of the Dead keeps marching South. A sequel and continuation to the events from "Our Eyes Are Mirror Images."
1. Chapter 1

**_Him_**

When he woke in the morning, it felt like a melting drift of snow had settled onto his chest. He thought for a moment that he might still be asleep, dreaming of a world where winter brought life and light instead of death. As his black eyes focused and the haze of sleep faded out of them, he realized his impossible snowdrift was actually a thick tangle of silver-white hair.

A bright beam of sunlight was illuminating her snow hair to a beam, face hidden behind a curtain. She rustled as he pulled himself up to half-sitting. What would such a woman's dreams contain? Dragons? Fire?

He wouldn't dare to presume he made any sort of appearance in her dreams.

Jon Snow knew what _he_ had dreamt the night before. _He_ had walked the grounds of Winterfell. The dream air had been cool but pleasant, and he had heard the whisperings from the leaves of the Godswood as the cold winds blew. They had sung to him sweetly and he had felt safe for the first time in years. His boots had crunched through glowing hills of powder as he'd made his way through a luminescent vacuum of silence. Around him the night had been so dark, its brightness had hurt to look at it.

By the time he pushed through the heavy wooden doors of the castle, he'd somehow sensed he was the only person alive for miles around. He wasn't frightened and he didn't feel the looming tension of battle. He'd only felt one thing and that was warmth. The walls surrounding him had emanated the heat of the steaming natural spring water that had thawed the Starks of Winterfell since the age of the First Men. As he walked, the heat grew and grew until he could almost hear it, flowing in rushes through the walls. When he passed under the entryway to the Great Hall, the sound of the spring water had risen into the roar of a hot ocean in his ears.

It was then that he'd woken up. It was then that he'd seen her curled up on top of him. Staring at the rough-hewn ship's ceiling above him, he'd run his callused fingers through her hair. Unbelievably soft. Beautiful, even without its intricate conqueror's braids.

The hot spring water of his dreams had been _her_ , the heat of her humanity. Even in his sleep, he'd felt her _living_ against him. For the rest of his days, however few they may be, he knew he'd never forget what she looked like in the light of a blazing fire, smiling beneath him.

"You remind me of home," he said out loud, his words drifting quietly into the bottled ocean air of the morning. When his eyes shifted from the ceiling to the Dragon Queen asleep at his side, he was met by her alert expression. Daenerys Targaryen was staring up at him, her chin making a depression into the flesh of his scarred abdomen.

"I've never known what that felt like before." Her voice was the jagged glass of sleep. It was all she said before grinning, just a little, and laying her head back down. She squeezed closer to him, adjusting back into the depths of furs and blankets and the comforts of well-deserved sleep.

 ** _Her_**

She thought they were being so careful.

Without discussing it, they'd known to spend their days apart. During Small Council meetings, they stood on opposite sides of the room, their various advisors like so many miles of land between them. If Jon Snow agreed with anything she propositioned, he always appeared disdainful of any order of business less significant than defeating the Night King. For her part, she was often short and taciturn with him, or else she remained silent, asking her Hand to confer with Snow after the meeting.

It wasn't much of an act for her to appear exasperated with her Warden of the North. The way he endlessly warned her and her advisors against _upsetting_ his Northern banner men, you'd think they were sailing toward a group of petulant children. She didn't want children for allies. If she hadn't been certain that his concern was genuine, or that it was for her well-being as well as the loyalty of the North, she would have been offended.

Each day for two weeks passed like this. Long, lonely days rocked by the waves of the ocean, pretending to have to suffer each other as Queen and Warden, speaking in coded glances or through unaware interpreters.

And then her King in the North had gotten too bold.

Yet another meeting had been called by her Hand – she had thrown Valyrian daggers at him with her eyes from across the table – as soon as they'd finished their meal for the evening. Their stay with the Manderlys would be Daenerys' first impression in the North and it was important she demonstrated her power without showing too much of it. The whole meeting had gone rather well, perhaps because they were full of heavy food and desirous of sleep. Jon Snow and his people had made the first moves to leave. As Lord Snow was about to pass through the entryway, he turned back, stopping so close behind her she could feel his smoky breath on her neck, and leaned over the frayed map spread wide on the table.

"If we want to make the best impression, I suggest the ships go ahead of us, straight to Winterfell. They may be in need of supplies." As he said this, Jon Snow rubbed her hand with the back of his, their fingers weaving together for the slice of a second. He retracted his hand like a snapped length of twine and exited the room without looking back. It had left Daenerys feeling more flushed than she'd ever felt without standing in the heart of a fire.

Missandei followed her back to her chambers after the meeting. She undid Daenerys' braids, turned down her bed, and brought her a steaming mug of hot tea. When Missandei took her leave, Daenerys stayed where she was on the bed, staring at the hands lying limp in her lap. They were a poor excuse for his, even sewn together. The door slammed closed with more ferocity than Missandei ever used. She turned and saw her Hand standing with his arms locked like chains behind his back.

"Your Grace, do you have any idea what you're doing?" For a moment she stared at him, attempting to gauge his disapproval. She'd been expecting this moment but she had hoped they could make it to White Harbor before being found out.

Jon Snow hadn't asked and she hadn't brought it up. She didn't know what they were doing, but she didn't care to admit that to her closest advisor. Shaking her head and lifting her chin, she refocused on observing the way the hearth danced and crackled. Tyrion Lannister took three tentative steps toward where she sat on her bed.

"If the Northmen see the two of you together, Your Grace, they'll only be reminded of one thing. Surely you _must_ see that." _This_ stirred her. Just as she was not her father, so was she not her brother. Her face was set with anger but her voice came out in a waver softer than the folds of silk she was wearing.

"I may love him, but I am no fool." The silence that followed this confession sat between them like a nervous Septon. Without looking, because she knew her composure would break, she felt Lord Tyrion approach. He laid his hand on her shoulder, a familiar gesture he didn't often attempt, and squeezed reassuringly, the pressure somehow grounding her.

There were no more words spoken before he left. She fell asleep that night blanketed in a silence colder than any fire could cut.

 ** _Him_**

There were things he'd regretted when he died. When he was reborn, he was more than a little preoccupied, but as days and weeks went by, his mind was revisited by one nagging thought.

 _Did I ever tell Ygritte that I loved her?_

He had been duplicitous, but it hurt his honor more that he couldn't remember.

As the marble-domed towers of White Harbor rose in the distance like snow-covered peaks, the former King in the North thought of things he might've done. Standing at the ship's railing and watching the men ready the mooring lines for docking, he felt her sidle up beside him. He felt her glowing warmth.

"Are you nervous, Your Grace?" There were eyes on them from all directions and she stood with a wide berth between them but it had been two and half weeks since they'd been alone together. When she turned to him, her eyes were like icicles dangling from castle eaves, ready to drop.

"I am never nervous, Lord Snow," she said in a cold voice, but half her mouth twitched upward in a joking manner and he knew she was pretending Queen with him again. An act they'd perfected on their journey north. He glanced around before laying his gloved hand over hers where it gripped the railing. Their bones fit together, just so.

"No Your Grace. Of course not."

Lord Wyman Manderly's son met them at the docks. Although he brought horses and greeted their party with deference, he referred to Jon Snow as _Your Grace_ with a very pointed affectation. The ride to New Castle was a chilly one, the cold wind whipping the mermen banners in a chorus. Daenerys Targaryen rode right beside him, serenely quiet.

A few hours later and the Dragon Queen was impressing everyone with her charming sense of diplomacy. Despite their stifled resentment, House Manderly had prepared a magnificent feast for their arrival and Lord Wyman had spit out a good deal of it laughing at her exaggerated retelling of Cersei Lannister's fearful reactions at the Dragon Pit parlay. The Warden of the North laughed into his cup of ale, feeling even more proud of his Queen than when she'd descended Drogon in an elaborate show for the Lannisters.

"Seems to me, Your Grace," Davos cleared his throat beside him, "in another life, our Queen would've been a fucking good mummer in Flea Bottom." They kept their cups low but toasted to this unexpected success.

When the company had had their fill, Lord Wyman asked for the honor of escorting his Queen to her chambers for the evening. Alone in his borrowed room, Jon Snow couldn't sleep, despite the generous provisions. Thoughts raced through his mind and a tightness bloomed in his chest. Regrets. He'd learned to live with so many of them.

It was rather more well-lit than he'd have liked, going through New Castle's winding corridors. Had he run across anyone, he wasn't sure what he would have said but the shadows were with him this night. When he knocked on her door, the anticipation nearly strangled him. He expected to be beckoned, but the door opened just wide enough for her pale winter face to show through.

"I might have known it was you, knocking on my door in the middle of the night." Smiling, she opened the door wide enough for Jon Snow to gain entry, and closed it purposefully behind him. She stood facing him.

"You did well today, Your Grace. I never should've doubted you." He felt lame in her presence, the ghost of their night together haunting him.

"I'm a fast learner, Jon Snow." The ale from his dinner had thickened his tongue to uselessness. She stared at him with knowing eyes.

"Forgive me, Your Grace. I'll leave you to your rest, but I had to tell you. I had to tell you that," he halted, meeting her blue-violet eyes with a wrenching force. "Daenerys, I came to tell you, and I know I shouldn't be saying this, but I love you. I can't go on _without_ saying it."

And with that, the Daenerys Targaryen shifted into him, grabbed his face between her hands, and kissed him for the first time in weeks. His eyes had clenched shut on contact but when he opened them, his black eyes were drowning in the rivers of her dilated irises.

Faces nearly touching, she whispered, "I know, Jon. As I love you. Dream of me," before gently pushing him, dazed, back toward the hall.

That night he slept well and deep and he did, in fact, dream of his silver-haired woman.

 ** _Her_**

 _This is either a dream, or I've finally been murdered._

It had been years since she'd had this many people staring down at her. Missandei, Lord Tyrion, Varys, Ser Jorah, Ser Davos. Jon Snow. She felt vulnerable, covered in furs and only a very thin shift. The longer the silence breathed the more apprehensive she became. She wordlessly threw her questions at them.

To Missandei: _the Unsullied?_

To Ser Jorah: _the Khalasar?_

To her Hand: _**My Dragons?**_

Each one in turn responded with an almost imperceptible shake of the head. And then Jon Snow stepped closer to her bed than he ever would have dared unless it were a true emergency.

"Your Grace, we have to leave immediately. Your forces will be at Winterfell in a matter of days, just ahead of the supply ships. Lord Manderly is bolstering our forces with a thousand fighting men," he forced out in a jumbled rush. If only she could look in his eyes. She was sitting up now, not even bothering to cover herself. He kept walking to her bed until he was crouching at her level. There was fire in the dragon-blackness of his eyes. "We've received a raven from Castle Black. The Wall has fallen. The dead are coming."

 _How did this happen?_

She let the question fall, frantically searching each of them of an answer.

"The message was…brief," he said, pushing himself up from his wolf-like haunch. They all stared at their feet and it sent her dragon spikes into a suspicious hackling, but there was no time to argue.

The next two hours flew in a flurry and for the first time since they'd met, she let her Warden of the North make all the commands. There wasn't a spare moment to interrogate him privately. Lord Manderly stayed behind to fortify the city – they might all end up back in White Harbor in the event of a quick retreat from Winterfell.

Jon Snow took the head of the vanguard as they marched off down the King's Road. They'd have to make haste if they were to catch up with her forces. Theirs was a much smaller troop of men (and women) and there wasn't much conversation, but who can talk when you're trying to outrun the End of the World?

The further they rode, the more frenzied the snow storm cycling around them became. She lost track of the hours. Her hips felt like the wishbone of a roast chicken, stretched to breaking from riding horseback without anything to distract her. The Targaryen blood did nothing to smother the cold.

There was something everyone wasn't telling her. She'd known it that morning, and she knew it that night when sleep overtook her in a sloppily prepared tent, alone and left to her thoughts.

The next day passed in a similar fashion. Driving snow. Whirling winds, chapping her face and bleeding her hands raw. Falling into bed, numbed to slumber by relentless pain in her hips. How did she spend so many days trekking across the Red Waste with her first Khalasar?

On the third day – around noon, although the colorless palette of the Northern winter sky made it impossible to tell by the sun – Lord Snow appeared beside her, having purposefully slowed his pace. She assumed he'd left Ser Jorah to guide the caravan's way north.

"Your Grace, once we make camp, I'd like to discuss our strategy for arriving in Winterfell. If you have a moment." He looked straight ahead when he spoke to her. Daenerys Targaryen was certain now that her King from the North had been avoiding her. Before answering him, she turned to her right and received a nod of approval from Missandei.

"Of course, Lord Snow. I know you must be anxious to see your home again." His nod was curt, formal, totally for the benefit of anyone who might not know he'd been inside her just a few weeks before. It hurt, and a dragon doesn't respond well to pain.

So hours later, when the black veil of night had draped itself across their camp, she'd ironed her face into the steel mask of a disinterested Queen. She could be curt and formal, too. Passing beneath the heavy canvas flap of his tent, Daenerys saw the broad back of Jon Snow hunched in a chair, curved over maps and papers like a mountain leaning into the wind. She cleared her throat.

"Lord Snow, I hope I'm not disturbing you. I can return at a later time," she announced, clasping her hands in front of her. He turned around immediately but he didn't respond. Instead, he stood up with such haste his chair fell over. He took the five widest steps she'd ever seen and crushed her to him with a shocking force that took her breath away.

"He has Viscerion. He has him. That's how he brought the Wall down." His staccatoed whisper punctured her. He held onto her in a vicelike grip while she collapsed into him like an empty sack of wheat. "I'm so sorry. I didn't know how to tell you."

A feeling overcame Daenerys Targaryen that made the edges of her vision blur and shimmer like a hot day in Pentos. There were no words. What could she say when she'd caused the death of her child? What could she say when he had become the most powerful weapon against them? Jon Snow bent down and scooped her up like she weighed _less_ thanan empty sack and carried her to his pallet. It seemed she was unable to move.

His fingers shook like a drunkard's as he unfastened the delicate buttons of her cloak, but she helped him pull her own arms out of it. His own cloak gave him less trouble. When he crawled into bed next to her, she clutched onto him for dear life, sobbing without a sound and cold without shivering.

There wasn't much room for two bodies on that pallet, but they made do. The Queen of the Andals and her Warden of the North didn't much care who saw them in the morning, either.

 ** _Him_**

 _Sansa, Bran, Arya. Sansa, Bran, Arya. Sansa, Bran, Arya._

It was a mantra, an incantation that had miraculously brought back his family. He wasn't able to save Rickon or Robb, and he'd made peace with the loss of Bran and Arya years ago, but here they were. Alive and well at Winterfell. Maybe the Red Woman was right. Maybe the Night King was a fraud. Because he knew people could be brought back from the dead, still very much alive.

Jon Snow knew he shouldn't anticipate his arrival back home the way he did, considering the simultaneous of war at their doorstep, but this was his family, fragmented and tattered, back together again. Winter may be coming, but the North remembers and the Pack survives.

The snow was rough, but they'd kept a great pace – Manderly's men, the Unsullied, and Dothraki screamers at their backs. The combined forces had united the day previous. It had been three stretched days since he'd told her the truth about the collapse of the Wall. Somehow, it had settled whatever was between them into something more corporeal. No part of him could have maintained propriety after watching her crack like bone marrow. He'd held her close and kissed her eyelids and told her over and over again that he loved her. She'd never allowed herself to appear to so human before him and his heart simultaneously swelled and fractured all night.

Davos had walked in on them, rumpled and mussed, in the feathery white light of dawn the next morning. "Your Graces, we'd better be off," he croaked, before smirking and nodding at his King, turning tail out of the tent. The way he addressed them, already a unit. Two halves of a whole. No one mentioned a thing, but Jon Snow and Daenerys Targaryen both knew the whole vanguard sensed some kind of allegiance had shifted.

They two lead the way now. His hands resting on the pommel of his saddle, he looked at her, admiring the dervish patterns of furious snowfall cascading around her face, the synchronized way their horses had fallen into step with each other. She didn't return the gaze but even with the cloak of her hood hiding most of the features of her beautiful face, he could see that the dry, pearlescent skin of her lips had broken into a smile the moment his obsidian eyes landed on them.

Winterfell looked both old beyond age and like something new and extraordinary as it rose up on the horizon. Horns heralded their arrival. They could be heard through the wind. Ser Davos rode up on the other side of him.

"Begging your pardon, Your Graces," he said, "but they'll be expecting you first, Lord Snow. Perhaps we should ride ahead and let the Queen lead the forces to the gate."

Armed men opened the gate when Jon Snow and his Hand were still a good distance away. Approaching the courtyard and watching it teem with bustle and life, men-at-arms running from one destination to the next, he felt a lump in his throat. _They have no idea what's coming for them._

And still, the men in their dark boiled leather and the vividness of the snowfall created a striking tableau. It was like he was greeting a very old friend and saying goodbye in one breath.

Jon Snow hardly noticed Ser Davos beside him as they rode beneath the overpass. All the activity around him had stopped at the sight of their King. Against the railing of the second floor of the castle, staring down at him from across the courtyard, stood _both_ of his sisters.

Every time he looked at Sansa, since the morning she'd slipped into Castle Black, he was struck by how grown she'd become. She might be Lady Stark but anyone could tell by the set of her shoulders that she was no simpering maiden. Beside her was a smaller, darker creature, like something out of a dream he once dreamt or a life he once lived.

Sansa began making her way down the stairs, skirts held up out of the cold and wet, but Arya – in soldier's garb, no less – ran ahead of her. She jogged across the courtyard as Jon dismounted. Unbuckling her scabbard from around her waist, she let it splash in the mud where it landed. When she ran into his arms, it was a bittersweet remembrance of the last time he'd seen her, when they'd departed North and South.

Only this time, he was embracing no little girl, but a sword – a young woman sharp and strong, whose grip around his throat was surprisingly assured.

"I knew I'd see you again. I knew it," his youngest sister whispered, clinging tightly to him.

"You always were much smarter that I was," he said, squeezing her back. Dropping her down, he got his first good look at her. "You're so tall!" He rearranged his jostled hauberk and watched as she ran back for her sword.

"She's not that tall, Jon," Sansa reminded him, catching up to them.

" _I'm_ not even as tall as you are, Sansa," he laughed and it felt good to laugh. Ser Davos dismounted and guided his horse to their circle.

"Where's your shadow, My Lady?" Davos asked, wrangling with Jon's horse behind them. He too noticed that Sansa's persistent, smirking shadow – Lord Petyr Baelish – was nowhere to be found. Bran had also missed their arrival. As Arya replaced her sword around her waist, she and Sansa shared a knowing look that filled him with disquiet. His fists clenched and unclenched, waiting for a response. Arya put her arms behind her back.

"Much has happened since you rode south, Brother," she said, and although her words spoke an ominous portent, she was smiling. At that moment, he noticed an identical narrowing of pupils and defiant lifting of chins from both his sisters. When he turned, he saw his Queen riding through the gates on her white horse, flanked by Tyrion Lannister and Ser Jorah Mormont, followed by Lord Varys and Missandei (who looked tremendously uncomfortable in the cold). He didn't quite know how to introduce her, but he knew whatever he said would never do her justice.

"Lady Sansa Stark, Lady Arya Stark. This is Queen Daenerys Stormborn, of House Targaryen. The Mother of Dragons." He gestured in her direction. She looked much less imposing, covered in furs and a hood, than she did when _he'd_ first laid eyes on her. A shadow passed overhead, momentarily blocking out the weak winter sun. The entire courtyard looked up and he saw a collective jump, like a wave of movement, as Drogon and Rhaegal screamed their welcome. With dozens of eyes pointed upward, Jon looked at his Queen and she looked at him and he hoped she read what he was trying to communicate to her.

 _I love you._ They _will love you, too._

"Your Grace," Sansa's voice interrupted them. "Might I suggest we hold a council meeting? As soon as you're comfortable. We have _much_ to discuss."


	2. Chapter 2

_**Her**_

She loved it when people underestimated her. Didn't trust her. Saw her as an outsider. Years ago, in Vase Dothrak, none of the Dothraki thought she'd eat the whole horse's heart, but she did. And now there were no Khals. Only Khaleesi.

These Northerners looked at her the way the Dothraki did, waiting for her to give up or vomit. She might not be here to conquer, but these people still needed conquering. The strategy would just be different. No fire and blood. No horse's heart. Jon Snow's people needed to see that she was unaffected by the cold.

After unpacking her chambers, a large white beast with red eyes wandered through her door. His direwolf. It stood in the doorway and it seemed to be waiting for something.

"Ghost!" Jon Snow's voice bent around the hallway, only just ahead of him.

"This is your direwolf?" She asked as he walked through the door, following the wolf. It left his side and languidly padded toward her. If she hadn't been the Mother of Dragons, it might have been an imposing creature. Looking in his eyes was startlingly like looking into a dragon's – silent intelligence beyond measure, knowing loyalty and ferocity. He nuzzled her outstretched hand.

When she stood up, Jon Snow was standing so close to her she could smell the smoke and leather of him. His hands were ungloved and cold. He clasped either side of her face, leaned into her and kissed her on the brow. "I'm heading down to the Great Hall. Come down after me. Bring Ghost."

So when she swam through a crowd of Lords from the North and Knights of the Vale, she was late and flanked by Jon Snow's legendary direwolf. The angry clamor she'd heard died off as she made her way through the sea. She did not sit at the Great Table with Jon Snow and his sisters.

As soon as she was situated behind the table and between Tyrion Lannister and Missandei, the noise erupted again.

"Your Grace," a man with a sigil like a closed fist proclaimed, "we appreciate the supply ships that come up the White Knife this week, but I can't abide taking them attached to so many strings."

"The Knights of the Vale will not fight for foreign invaders, Your Grace. We named _you_ the king. Westeros hasn't recognized the Targaryen line of succession for decades." This man and his sigil – round dots on a field of runes – were ludicrous. Jon Snow stood, placing his gloved hands heavily on the wood of the table.

"My lords, I understand your concern. But you chose me to lead you. You named me King because of what I've done on the battlefield. I've fought the Night King and I've lost against him. We cannot win without Queen Daenerys and her dragons. And if we lose, it won't _matter_ who sits on the Iron Throne." There was more chaotic shouting. Lady Sansa stood next to her brother.

"We _chose_ Jon to lead us because we _trust_ him to do the right thing. To make difficult choices. To protect us. Why did we chose him if we second guess every decision he makes? Why was he our King if we can't stand behind him?" Daenerys saw a look of gratitude pass between the siblings. She scratched Ghost between his ears, felt his wagging tail brush against her legs.

"Daenerys Targaryen is no queen of mine," a smallish, angry-looking man said through clenched teeth. "Her Hand is the Imp. There are dragons circling overhead. Her army of savages is making camp outside our gates. Does no one remember all those who died on the battlefield when Ned Stark fought to overthrow her father?" His sigil was a double-bladed axe. She wanted to gut him with it.

"Lord Cerwyn, you forget yourself." It became brutally quiet as Jon Snow's voice rose in anger. "I may have relinquished my crown but you are still sworn to House Stark. I almost died North of the Wall. My whole party were lost until Queen Daenerys flew her dragons north and saved us all. She's seen the Night King. She knows what's at stake. She promised her dragons and her men and in return, I _gave_ her the North."

"And you're willing to pledge us to win the Iron Throne for her?"

She stepped forward. She couldn't have her Warden speak for her any longer.

"My Lords and Ladies." She felt the piercing glare of dozens of eyes. "There are the Living and there are the Dead. The rest doesn't matter. Your king made me see the truth of that." The whirlpool of angry bile rose in her stomach. "The Wall has fallen and the Night King rides for us." The gasps emitted were a mass inhalation of frigid air, echoed by frightened whispers. "The Dead are coming. Let me fight with you. I am _not_ my father. Judge me by _my_ actions. I willdefeat the Night King for you, I swear it." She felt Lord Snow's eyes like an augur. Her face had reddened but she hoped they could hear the sincerity pouring out of her.

Her Hand stepped forward. "I urge you all to remember we are on the same side in the Great War. We'll worry about my sister if we survive."

Every House wanted answers, but plans needed to be set and strategies finalized. A round, nervous-looking man had entered as everyone else was exiting. He was pushing before him a brown-haired, sorrowful-looking young man in a wheeled chair. They lingered in the back of the room.

As soon as Jon Snow saw them, he cut his conversation with Ser Jorah off mid-sentence and went running. _His brother._ Lord Snow bent to embrace his brother who sat stiff and unmoved by the reunion.

There were only a dozen people in the room now, her counselors and his, as well as his siblings and their advisors. When Brandon Stark was introduced to her, his smile didn't reach his eyes. When Samwell Tarly was introduced to her as Jon Snow's sworn brother of the Night's Watch, her brows furrowed in question at Tyrion Lannister. _Tarly?_

"I see you made it back to your Queen, Ser Jorah," Tarly directed happily behind her, to where her advisor was standing.

"That I did, Samwell Tarly," he said over his Queen's head. "A debt I can never repay you. Sam was training as a Maester of the Citadel when we met. He cured me as a Novice when the Maester's told me it was hopeless. I owe him my life."

 _And I took the lives of his family. The things I've done from a position of strength._

"I've been waiting to speak with you, Daenerys Targaryen." When she turned her head, Brandon Stark seemed to be measuring her, dismantling her. Her hand flew to her chest, fingers splayed wide.

"Me, Lord Stark?"

"I am no Lord Stark. I'm the Three-Eyed Raven." A lull of confusion spread like melted butter.

"Your Grace, my brother has spent the last few years North of the Wall. He is not used to the presence of Queens," his older brother volunteered. The awkwardness of his joke told her that he, too, was alarmed by his brother's riddles.

"No, Jon," he snapped, but not unkindly. "I have been waiting a long time to see Daenerys Targaryen. And I have been waiting a long time to see _you."_ At this, Tarly pushed his way through the small crowd, bowed forward in apology.

"Forgive him, Your Grace. What Bran means to say is that he's a greenseer. He can see things. Things that have happened, things that are happening right now. That's how the Ladies Sansa and Arya knew to execute Lord Baelish."

"You said Lord Baelish had returned to the Vale," Jon demanded of his sisters. This news hadn't been relayed to anyone in her camp, either.

"Does it matter now, Jon? Sansa floundered, struggling to explain, "Bran informed us of the full extent of his crimes against our family-"

"But it isn't Jon's family." Jon Snow looked at this Three-Eyed Raven, bruised and wounded. She'd always prided herself on being able to assess her surroundings before anyone else in the room, but this time she was completely thrown off now and it scared her.

"How can you say that, Bran?" asked Arya Stark.

"Because it's true. Jon isn't our brother. He's our cousin."

"Bran. What have you seen in your visions?" His hand rested on his sword's wolf-head pommel possessively as he moved to stand in front of Brandon.

"You were born in Dorne, at the end of Robert's Rebellion. Your mother was Lyanna Stark."

"Aunt Lyanna?" asked Sansa. The three greensightless Starks looked back and forth between each other, searching for rescue. "If you're not father's son, then who are you?"

"Jon is the legitimate son of Lyanna Stark and…and Rhaegar Targaryen," whispered Sam Tarly, in a low voice that rung against the stone walls above them. Wet, gargled murmurs stalled his voice and he was compulsively licking his lips. "His marriage to Elia Martell was annulled. He married Lyanna shortly after they ran off together. There's written record of it. I've read it."

It was like someone had thrown a severed head into their midst and everyone had taken a step backward to avoid stepping in the pool of blood.

"Your name isn't Jon Snow. It's Aegon Targaryen," said Brandon Stark.

 _Aegon the Conqueror._

"But," Tyrion Lannister's voice slowly ventured, "if Jon Snow is the legitimate son of Rhaegar Targaryen, that would mean that _he_ is the rightful heir to the Iron Throne."

A careless summer breeze could have knocked her over. He was staring right at her. His dragon eyes withering and absent of fire.

Should she run to him or scream? Was the man she loved just another in a long line of usurpers? Or was she? They needed to discuss this alone, but the moment she made a move toward him, he turned and left the Great Hall without a backward glance.

 _ **Him**_

The rhythm of the hacking was comforting. Something steady. Something to be relied upon. He swung right, once, twice, three times, and then he swung left with extra effort. Splinters rained on the snow, and the weeping meat of the weirwood tree looked jarring and naked in the rising light.

After storming out of the Great Hall, he'd marched to his chambers and locked his door behind him, something he hadn't done since before he'd joined the Night's Watch, something he used to do whenever he was painfully reminded of his status as the Bastard of Winterfell. He'd fallen into a fitful sleep. Several times he'd woken to knocking on his door and several times he'd rolled over and ignored it.

That morning he'd woken up before the rest of the castle and headed straight for the Godswood, hoping to think alone. He hadn't left early enough.

"Robb did that. When Father died. He was so upset, but Motherconvinced him to stop. She said he'd ruin his sword. His sword wasn't Valyrian steel, though." Bran had been sitting in his chair, nestled against their father's favorite heart tree, when Jon Snow had gotten there hours before. He hadn't stirred at all, content to simply watch Jon expel his anger, sword against tree. Jon's sword hung now, bouncing against his leg. He was sweating in his furs and hardly felt the bite of the cold.

"How could you let them execute Littlefinger without asking me first?"

"He was a bad man. He did terrible things."

"Did you tell Sam what happened to his father and brother?"

"No. We need him here. We need Daenerys here. We need you here. I thought you'd be happy. You always wanted to know who your mother was."

"I did. It's the only thing I ever wanted from Father."

"Aside from being named a Stark."

"Aside from being named a Stark."

"Then why are so angry? You're not a bastard. You never were. Your mother and father loved each other. You were wanted."

"Yes and now everything I have is based on a lie. Everything I've _ever_ had. And the Queen must hate me. And I've done terrible things."

"But you didn't know. She didn't know. And she doesn't hate you." He stopped, looking off into the hills, agreeing with the horizon. "You should go to her."

"Bran, do you realize we could have lost the Vale?" When Bran failed to respond, Jon Snow finally tossed his sword away, leaving it where it noisily tumbled. "And you realize Father died so that Cersei Lannister could keep her secrets?" Again, nothing. He threw up his arms, beseeching anyone to answer him. "And that my being alive at all means Father, the most honorable man we ever knew, was a traitor?"

"But he wasn't your father. He helped _kill_ your father."

"I never knew Rhaegar Targaryen! I only knew Ned Stark!" This whole argument struck the former King in the North as being pointless and one-sided. Collapsing, his knees sunk into the snow and he tasted acidic defeat in his mouth.

"Why do you think Father kept you separated from us?" Bran rolled his chair closer by a foot. Jon looked at him sideways through the wet tangles of his hair.

"Because your mother hated me."

"No. Why do you think he never returned South after the war? Father couldn't lie. He kept you away so he wouldn't be tempted to tell the truth. The King would have had you killed. He tried to have Daenerys killed, and Father quit as Hand because of it."

At this casual mention of the Queen, he finally dropped his head and closed his eyes, hard. It hurt too much.

"I've laid with my own blood. I have no more honor than Jaime Lannister."

"Targaryen's have wed each other since the dawn of time. The Queen loves you."

"I'm _not_ a Targaryen. I'm a Stark."

"And yet you've spent your whole life telling people that you aren't."

 _You have never, ever known anything, Jon Snow._

He swung his legs around so that they were crossed and he was sitting like a child listening to one of Old Nan's stories, the precipitation soaking through his breeches. "Bran, what would you have me do? I have a war to fight."

"So fight. Fight with Daenerys Targaryen and you will win."

"How do you know?"

"I _don't_ know for certain. The future can always change."

"I don't want the crown."

"But you want the woman who wears it."

"The last time I saw you, you were still a little boy who wanted to be a knight!" he laughed, mirthlessly, at his otherworldly younger brother. Cousin. He rubbed his face with his hands.

"Have you ever considered that you don't have to be one or the other? Your father was Rhaegar but your mother was Lyanna. You are Targaryen _and_ Stark. Be both. You always have been."

The rest of the castle must have been waking, but Jon Snow heard nothing but his own labored breathing, the world around him quiet in anticipation like an audience before a troupe of actors. Looking up into the grey sky through the red leaves of the tree before him, Maester Aemon's words came back to him through the mists of time.

 _A Targaryen alone in the world is a terrible thing._

 _ **Her**_

When her Hand suggested she concentrate on something other than the War Council, she nearly spat on him. It was a diversion tactic, to be sure – a way to keep her mind off the new and nagging ambiguities in her relationship with her Warden of the North. But he reminded her that, in many ways, the North still needed convincing.

"What would your _brother_ have done?" _Been beloved by the people. Married a Stark._

Tyrion Lannister's grin was nothing less than smug. Eventually, he was always right. So she spent her days being seen all across Winterfell, earning their favor.

In the central courtyard, she watched Lady Sansa's sworn shield, Brienne of Tarth, spar with Arya Stark – who insisted, over and again, that she not be referred to as _Lady_.

The men and women who worked the stables were aflutter with the attention as she shared stories about her time leading her Khalasar. It was there she learned the most about the history of Winterfell, all the old stories she didn't used to believe until she'd seen them waking.

She roamed the encampments, visiting with the soldiers. The Dothraki, although unused to the cold, were eager to prove themselves in battle and the Unsullied were as rigid as ever. The Northmen were as courteous as they could be while still refusing to speak with her. But with Ghost as her guard she kept at it, until she learned how blustering, gregarious, and funny they could be.

She took Ghost with her to visit Drogon and Rhaegal. They were chained during the day but took flight at night, when she could hear Ghost send howls of brotherhood heavenward, into the dark, infinite emptiness.

She took her meals in the Great Hall, somedays with Missandei and Grey Worm, and on other days with Lord Tyrion and his _former_ squire, Podrick Payne, who made her laugh in spite of herself.

And at night she lied in her bed, unable to sleep, counting all the things she wished she had done. She wished she'd followed him out the door, across the courtyard, out the gate and kept on going south, until there was nowhere left to go. She wished she'd forced some kind of answer. _Do you love me or do you love what I offer?_

At the end of the week there was a knock on her door. Her chest hammered furiously – her Warden of the North had let each of her sealed messages go without reply, leaving her heart in fetid stasis. She called for her guest to enter.

Ser Davos shuffled in. "Apologies, Your Grace. I was hoping I might have a word." But when he made his way to sit across her small table, neither seemed to know what to say. She waited. He reached for her abandoned flagon of wine and took a long swig. "I hear good things about you around the castle, Your Grace. I think you've managed to win a lot of 'em over."

"I did as my advisor suggested, Ser Davos," she said, letting the resentment seep into her words.

"It reminds me of your brother. I saw him once, you know." She sat up straighter, leaning into his voice, eager to hear anything that contradicted the Northern side of things. "I'm from King's Landing, originally, and before the War I remember watching Prince Rhaegar walking and singing through Flea Bottom. You could tell he was royal – the way he looked, the way he carried himself – but he never acted like he knew it."

"Ser Jorah told me this story once. He said Rhaegar loved to sing."

"Aye, and he had a right good voice too, if I recall. You know, Your Grace, Stannis Baratheon might have lifted me up, but I never quite believed what they said about your brother. Your father – no offense intended, Your Grace – that was all true, but Prince Rhaegar didn't seem like the type who'd have to _force_ a woman to go anywhere." His story, his kind and humble words, felt like a tonic. Lighthearted Targaryen stories were a rare thing this far away from Dragonstone.

"Ser Davos, how do I fare in your eyes? Speak honestly. Do believe in my claim to the throne?"

"Your Grace," he started. The man was comfortable with his words, plainspoken and true, but she could tell he was treading lightly. "You are a skilled conqueror. You've surrounded yourself with smart and loyal advisors, including a Hand who is, technically, the enemy. But, I think, most of all you want to help people. Common people like the ones in Flea Bottom. You'll be a good Queen if it ever comes to that. You've got a good heart. Jon Snow told me so." With this, she pushed herself back in her chair, stood, and turned to look out her window. She couldn't have him see her.

"Do you think Jon Snow would be a _better_ king?"

"It's not a matter of _better._ Jon Snow doesn't want to be king. He never did. He didn't even want to be Lord Commander. He only took the title to protect his people."

"Answer my question, Ser Davos."

"Your Grace, I think Jon Snow would be a great king _because_ he doesn't want to be. He wants to help people, same as you. But he would never take the crown for himself. It's just not in him." When she heard his chair scrape, she knew the Onion Knight had said his piece. "Give him time, Your Grace."

That night, she dreamt of the first time she ever saw Jon Snow and the way he could hardly manage to look at her, like she was a burning star, something too bright to behold.

The next day she spent time with Lady Sansa and Lord Tyrion, examining all that had been gathered and stored for any refugees who might arrive, outrunning the Army of the Dead. Even the Dragon Queen was impressed with Sansa's forethought and efficiency. She'd taken care of everything.

"You were always far too smart to just be a Lord's wife," her Hand complimented his former bride. The auburn-haired lady of the castle looked pleased. Credit was more often given to her heroic half-brother. Cousin.

As the trio walked and the Lady Sansa continued to explain her thoughts on how to supplement and house her projected numbers, Daenerys Targaryen tasted steel on her tongue. Her breath felt hot, and waves of saliva were flooding against her teeth. Leaning against the fortifying beams of the granary, her hand flew up to cover her mouth. Bent and overcome by dizziness, the Queen of the Andals and First Men wretched into a mound of snow. Her companions watched her and she watched as the puddle at her feet steamed and melted into a cloudy brine.

"Lady Sansa, please fetch the Maester to my chambers. I will meet him there." Once Sansa had picked up her skirts and headed for the Maester, Daenerys looked at her Hand.

 _Do not tell Jon Snow._

 _ **Him**_

He felt it like a specter. He ran the War Councils, relaying information from one party to the next. He was like a busy raven, delivering messages. It did nothing to shake this one, unutterable fact: _he missed her._

Bran was waiting for him in the Godswood every night since the first, and every night his council was the same. Be both. Go to her. It had been three days and the more concrete their plans, the more repeated this guidance, and the more he missed her, the less life-altering the reality of his life and its various shades and mysteries became. Many things that had never fit quite right suddenly locked into place. Winterfell had always been his home, but his family had always lived and breathed just beyond arm's reach. If what Bran said was true, then maybe all of this was _supposed_ to happen.

Of course, he didn't know how to be anything but a Stark and letters from the only other Targaryen alive still sat – seal unbroken – next to his bed. He feared he'd let too much time pass. Initially he'd felt indebted to Tyrion Lannister for convincing the Queen to get to know her people. This saved him the discomfort of finding a bridge between what they had been and what they could be, but now Jon Snow found himself wanting to cross that tenuous bridge.

The gathering storm was not going to slow down just for him. Death was coming for them all. If he had to die again, there would be no regrets.

As he readied himself for the day – adjusting haberk, securing sword – he heard the sharp blast of the sentries' horns break the calm of the morning. There had been no raven warning of an arrival. Hastily, he shouldered his furs across his back and made his way down the hall.

"Your Grace," Ser Davos panted as he caught up with Jon Snow coming down the hall from the opposite direction. Each knew by looking at the other that this was an unexpected event.

When they broke free from the darkness of the castle and stepped out into the light, his eyes were drawn to her. She was already at the gates, with Tyrion Lannister and both of his sisters, with a look of suppressed worry on her face. He reached for his sword, a motion that rippled across the courtyard.

But when the heavy gate finished making its inward arc, it wasn't White Walkers or the risen dead who came scrambling in. It was a huddled mass of Northerners, scared and cold, led by a group of familiar faces.

"Jon Fucking Snow! We thought you'd be dead by now!" He'd never been so happy to have Tormund Giantsbane grapple him in a hug. It was nothing short of a miracle that he, Beric Dondarrion, and Gendry Waters had been able to run the length of the wall to safety all the way to Castle Black. Once they'd made it, informed Dolorous Edd – the Lord Commander – and sent their ravens across the North, they'd all headed South to Winterfell. As the Lord Commander, Edd had made the decision that, with the breach of the wall and the march of the dead trampling toward war with the living, the Night's Watch would be needed at Winterfell _. To guard the realms of men._

Along the way, they'd picked up men, women, and children from Mole's Town, the Gift, and Last Hearth, all seeking protection from the plague beyond the wall. Jon Snow thanked the Gods for the extra numbers to strengthen his forces. At this surge in population however, he realized there was a very crucial piece of information regarding the incoming threat that he had withheld from those who were at Winterfell when he'd returned.

"Lord Snow," he heard called to him from across the courtyard. Twin orbs of ice froze on him. It was the first time they'd spoken in days. It made his breath catch. All eyes turned to her but she ignored them, held her head high and let her skirts drag in the mud as she walked over so as not to shout. He'd forgotten how warm she was, how sweet and steely she smelled. A large part of him was afraid he was going to be slapped. "I think we should call a meeting of the Knights and Lords. It might be disastrous if our men and women found out about Viscerion from someone other than their Queen or their King."

He'd misplaced his ability to speak, so he simply nodded his assent.

Those gathered stood in the Great Hall watched as Daenerys Targaryen and Jon Snow stood together, side-by-side in spite of days of impasse between them, and informed them of the true nature of the Night King's threat. Held upright by Valyrian resolve, she took the lead, plowing onward through cries of outrage and fear at the news that the Night King rode straight for Winterfell on the back of one of her dragons. The flotsam of sadness _she_ felt about this matter floated just below the surface. As though they'd practiced it beforehand he followed her, assuring his people that plans and strategies were being sharpened and refined daily. He also reminded them that Lannister reinforcements had been marching north since the Dragon Pit parlay, sworn to fight this war for the survival of Westeros.

The whisper of a smile fluttered across her lips when he caught her eye, across the crowded Great Hall and over the bobbing heads of his people – her, the foam on the ocean – before she wordlessly disappeared. Consciousness escaped him that night, almost the moment his head hit the pillow.

The Kingslayer's midnight arrival roused him out of a dreamless sleep. The commander of the Royal Kingsguard brought with him Sandor Clegane and a man Lord Tyrion introduced as Ser Bronn of the Blackwater, someone who looked suspiciously like a sellsword. With them, maybe two dozen men. Cersei Lannister's treachery shouldn't have come as a surprise to anyone, but the blow was nearly fatal. She'd doomed them. Not a man among them batted an eye when Jon Snow upturned a table.

"Gentlemen, there's really only one thing to do when faced with one's impending mortality," said Tyrion Lannister, with a sigh that bespoke a life largely defined by near-misses and might-have-beens.

An hour later and the King in the North – Ned Stark's former bastard and Rhaegar Targaryen's secret son – found himself significantly more intoxicated than he'd ever been before. Illuminated by candlelight, he sat around the Great Table with his best friends, his newest allies, and his enemies. Ser Jaime had just finished detailing for his company just how close he'd come to having his head chopped off by his own sister, when Lord Tyrion developed a glint in his eye.

"You haven't heard the news, dear brother. Lord Snow here is _much more_ than the King in the North, although he did recently relinquish that title to our Queen Daenerys." To be fair, much of what Jon Snow knew of Jaime Lannister was based on rumor and Northern assumptions. But when the man slammed his flagon of ale down on the table, hard, he perceived a much acuter sense of self-awareness than he'd ever given the man credit for. Ser Jaime shifted in his seat and covered his mouth with his good hand.

"My God. It all makes sense now. Ned Stark would've never fathered a bastard." He laughed. He actually laughed and if Jon Snow had been less drunk he might have been offended. "You're Rhaegar Targaryen's son, aren't you?" It was silent in the room, other than each ponderous, thunderous swig of ale. "You're Ned Stark's _nephew,_ aren't you?" Jaime Lannister found the whole thing much funnier than Jon Snow had. "And Ned Stark raised you right under Robert Baratheon's nose! The man had a lot more nerve than I ever suspected!"

"I'm glad you find this so funny, Ser Jaime." The alcohol was leaving him, ounces per minute.

"You're the heir to the Iron Throne! My sister's lost her mind! If we live through this, Westeros is yours!" Opportunities rattled off in quick succession did not seem impressive to the men around the table. Jaime Lannister looked from man to man, perplexed at the way they avoided his enthusiasm.

Ser Davos spoke. "He's in love with the Queen. It's caused a bit of a row between them."

"Why?" It would have been stupid to cause a rift between himself and the only other seasoned military commander in their arsenal, so when the Kingslayer asked this, he stayed quiet. "Because _she_ thinks _you_ want the Iron Throne for yourself? Or because _she's_ your aunt by blood, and being in love with her makes _you_ no better than I am?"

It must be the end of the world, or how else could a man, known throughout the world for breaking a sacred oath and killing his king, make another king feel so small?

Jaime Lannister leaned back in his chair and cleared his throat. "Well Jon Snow, if it means anything coming from a man without honor, I can tell you this. If I've learned anything in this life, it's that we do not choose who we love. And we'll all be dead soon anyway." His flagon hung in the air, a sad and weathered man trying to pass on the only bit of wisdom he had to give. Ten mugs of ale clinked together with a leaden thud.

 _ **Her**_

She dreamt of rushing air. She dreamt of winter roses, bluer than sky, growing out of her eyes and rooted in her belly. She dreamt of firelight, refracted in snow. She dreamt of black hair and the way it felt, brushing against her forehead. And when she woke, she didn't question who it was kneeling at her bed.

Sitting up and reaching out to him, she undid his furs and helped pull him up beside her. She smelled the ale on his breath, felt the sweat on his hands.

"I don't know anything," he said as she wrapped her arms around him. His head rested on her collarbone, black curls wet with snow. "I've always been a bastard and I acted like one."

"We should have discussed it," she whispered. It was harsh, but the rhythm of her delicate hands softened the sting. "I am your Queen and you are my ally. You cannot run away from me."

"I'm a stupid man, Your Grace," he said, looking up at her with those honorable dragon's eyes. "I would _never_ fight your claim to the throne. I wouldn't've said it if I hadn't meant it. You are my Queen. If I live to, I _will_ fight for you."

The steady, methodical _whoosh_ of her fingers through his hair filled the night. Did anything else in the world exist? Had it ever?

"Jon Snow, you are my home now, do you understand?" Silence. "And we didn't do anything wrong. Do you understand?"

"Bran says we can win the war together. It's as it should be. We were meant to find each other." At his words, Daenerys Targaryen pushed herself up, forcing Jon Snow along with her.

"You were right. You knew all along. It always made so much sense and then I told you, and it sounded ridiculous, like you already knew." In her chambers, the darkness around them was thick enough to be crushed velvet, but she knew he saw every inch of her. For an eternity they sat there, breathing, until, crawling like a foal learning to stand, his hand made its way to rest on her stomach.

"The Maester confirmed it yesterday." The emptiness she'd felt for days was replaced by the weight of him. It reminded her of the first time they'd kissed, the way he seemed afraid to lose her.

"I will protect you. My sword is yours. Every part of me is yours, Daenerys." When their lips met, it was a kiss born of salty tears and smoky breath. It was impossible to tell who held who the tightest.

"Be my King. Marry me. Rule with me."

The Godswood was claimed by candle fire. For all she knew, the Night King was just beyond the castle's gates, but for this night, the night after her wolf had returned to her, they'd leave their fate in fire's hands.

He stood beneath the heart tree, the one his father – the man who raised him – had knelt before in prayer years earlier. She clung to the arm of her Hand, the only man she'd trust as witness to the joining of two royal houses.

"Who comes? Who comes before the Gods?" The way his voice quavered, she could hear her King's nervousness and she would have laughed if it hadn't made her dragon heart burst.

"Daenerys, of House Targaryen, Queen of the Andals and the First Men, the Mother of Dragons. A woman trueborn and noble, she comes to beg the blessings of the gods. Who comes to claim her?" Her Hand had been so afraid he'd forget the words, he'd rehearsed endlessly with Sansa Stark.

"Jon of Houses Stark and Targaryen, Warden of the North. I claim her. Who gives her?"

"Tyrion of House Lannister, Hand to the Queen. Queen Daenerys, do you take this man?"

"I take this man." Their gloved hands clasped together as they knelt before the heart tree. Although she could not say what it was her husband prayed for, the Queen prayed for the health of her unborn child, the safety of her loved ones, the defeat of the Night King, and the victory of her people.

They rose. A union forged by ice and fire, struck together by obsidian. Jon Snow did not remove her maiden's cloak as dictated by tradition, because the night was freezing and he had no sigil yet of his own. He removed his own thick furs and laid them over her slight shoulders. He kissed her like something rarer than dragon's eggs.

The candlelight was dying. The face of the heart tree smiled. "Well, my Queen?" He asked, blinking, tilting her face upward with the crook of his finger. "Shall we begin?"


End file.
